The Storyteller of Marrakesh (22 page)

Wait a minute, I said, and turned to my erstwhile friend, the police constable, who was sitting in a corner of the room and keeping a watchful eye on us. I asked him how much time I had for my meeting with my brother.

Half an hour or thereabouts, he answered.

In that case, will you excuse us?

He looked at me stolidly. I am not allowed, he replied.

I walked over to him and handed him a large bill I'd brought explicitly for the purpose. Neither one of us spoke as he pocketed the money. To my surprise, however, he continued to sit there, and I realized that other, stronger measures were called for. I reflected for a moment while he stared at me impassively. Then I took a step back and directed his attention to the sand littering the floor.

That sand you noticed earlier, I said quietly – it's from the Sahara.

He stared at me as if I'd lost my mind.

Get out of here! he scoffed.

I leant forward and looked him straight in the eye.

I'm quite serious, I said. It seeped into the room while I was telling you my story. Tell me how else it could have entered here.

He was about to contest me again when I raised my hand.

By the way, I said casually, will you check your pockets, please?

He looked at me uncertainly, then plunged his hands into the pockets of his trousers. Rifling through them like a man possessed, he brought out fistfuls of sand.

Eyeing me with a measure of astonishment not unmixed with fear, he whispered: How is this possible?

I have the power, I replied. Now leave us, please.

I had the sense that he was glad to leave the room after that. When I turned to my brother, I saw him gazing at me with amusement.

Nice work, he said, and smiled. Where did you learn that trick?

From my friend Akram, the magician, I replied. It's nothing.

Mustafa looked at me intently.

I'm sorry to have put you through this, he remarked. I see you're not smiling. Well, I'm grateful that you're here.

The things I have to do for you, I said drily. In any case, what do you have to tell me?

He tipped his head back and half-closed his eyes.

What he said next took my breath away.

What do I have to tell you? Simply this. I saw her again that night following the
rwai
.

He paused for effect. I knew that he was watching me closely.

Really? I said. Why should I believe you?

Do you have an alternative?

When I didn't reply, my brother leant forward and began to speak very quietly, almost in a whisper, as if worried that, although the constable had left the room, he was still listening. As he spoke, I could hear the sounds of the traffic passing by outside, or pedestrians conversing noisily. At those times, I had to lean forward to hear him better and it occurred to me that the two of us must have made quite a sight, with our faces pressed together through the bars of the grille.

To begin with, Mustafa said, I need you to understand that, in every sense, that was the evening of the best day of my life. I hope to feast on its memories for the rest of my days, and I assure you that I am not exaggerating. Of course, it didn't start out that way. First, there was the unfortunate encounter with the two of them in the ice-cream parlour, following which I searched for her all over the square until the free-for-all at the
rwai
attracted my attention and I ran into them again. Since you were there as well, I'm not going to go into any details about the mêlée save to tell you that even I found it terrifying. I spotted her immediately and, of course, I was desperately happy; then the reality of the situation struck home and I waded into the brawl with my fists swinging. I saw it as the perfect opportunity to prove myself by saving her from those thugs who were obviously intent on malice. One of them, a particularly nasty customer with a shaven head, was in the midst of slinging a burlap sack over her when I tapped him on the chin and he went down with a whistling sound that carried above the din. As I struggled to free her from the folds of the sack, she appeared to recognize me.

My husband! she gasped. Please save him!

What can I tell you, Hassan? Words cannot describe my feelings. I went warm inside and then cold. She couldn't have hurt me more had she slapped me. So that bearded youth was her husband! Although I threw my head back proudly, I was devastated. Of course, I wanted her for myself and my first impulse was to abandon him, but my better instincts prevailed and I rushed with her to where he was struggling with his assailants.

Come with me! I shouted in English, pulling at his arm. I'm a friend!

Save my wife! he shouted back without looking at me. I can hold them off for a little while longer, but save her, please!

She's safe! I yelled, managing to drag him away at the same time that I grabbed her arm. She gave me a grateful look as I propelled them forward.

To the souks! I panted. Quick!

They glanced at each other as if unsure of whether or not to trust me. I drew their attention to the shadowy group of figures who were detaching themselves from the fracas and heading purposefully in our direction.

It's up to you, I said, but make up your minds fast, for Heaven's sake! These men mean business!

I'm terribly frightened, she whispered, and as I felt the weight of her fear, I was overcome once again by my love for her.

Trying to preserve a façade of calm, I swung round to her husband. What about it? I said.

He glanced over his shoulder with constricted lips.

Let's go! he said, and we broke into a mad dash.

Behind us, I heard the sound of our pursuers giving chase.

We ran like the wind. Someone yelled at us, but we didn't slow down. I don't think I've ever run so fast in my life. We hurtled past the shuttered food and juice stalls, the Café de France, the Qessabin Mosque, and then straight into the rabbit warren of alleys that lead into the souks.

At this point, with a slightly apologetic gesture, Mustafa paused and asked me if I remembered the game Father would have us play as children when we accompanied him to the Jemaa. The one, he said, where he'd have us imagine that we were disembodied eyes roaming the square. Well, I can tell you I've never been more grateful than I was that night for that exercise in familiarizing myself with the Jemaa and its surroundings. I knew exactly where to go, and how to find my way there in the darkness.

It was to the shop of my friend the shoemaker Karim. I knew that behind his shop he had a secret showroom where he sold shoes copied from the latest designs in Milan and Paris. I knew where he kept the keys – concealed beneath a loose brick – and that is where we found ourselves in a matter of minutes. I shut the door behind us and we stood panting in the darkness, listening to the sounds of the chase echoing through the galleries, now near, now distant.

What do they want from us? she whispered in a frightened voice.

They want you, I said bluntly, and I sensed her husband drawing close to her even as he signalled his agreement.

He's right, he said. It's clear enough.

He took her face in his hands and I heard them kiss.

He turned to me. What do we do now? he asked. Should we stay here for a while? When is it going to be safe to return to our hotel? Or, should I rephrase that? Is it going to be safe in our hotel?

Frankly, I don't know, I replied. You've attracted the attention of some very dangerous people. Certainly people with plenty of determination, and, above all, money. Thugs of the sort that aren't shy of attempting an abduction in a place as public as the Jemaa don't come cheaply. There's too much organization involved, and they seemed to be working to a definite plan. So I think it would be best to wait here for a while. As for your returning to your hotel, I would advise holding off at least until dawn. Hopefully, they will have stopped looking for you by then. In the meantime, while you catch your breath, I'll bring back a couple of jellabas you can wear to disguise yourselves.

In the darkness, I sensed both of them staring at me, and then he said: Why the disguises?

Because you can't afford to risk losing your wife. News travels fast in the medina, and the men who were after her won't take their setback lying down.

I sensed her reaching out to clutch his hand, and her fingers brushed against my sleeve. Her proximity made my heart race. I leant my forehead against the door and tried not to let my feelings show. With all my heart I wished that her whole pliant body would bend involuntarily towards me. She must have sensed my struggle because she edged away from me, retreating into the part of the room where it was darkest. I heard her exhale softly and sink down to her feet.

Naturally, her husband rushed over and they kissed again, noisily, in the manner of Westerners.

It was cold in the room. I felt the chill in my heart. I turned away and willed myself not to look at them. I felt no pain, only a glimpse of what was forbidden to me. My God, I reflected, how mysterious life is, how utterly incomprehensible! She was my immortal beloved and I should have been able to claim her as mine, but it was not to be. I could have been like her husband, or, even better, I could have been her husband, but fate had decreed it differently. Here I was in the same room with her, and she was sucking tongues with someone else. It all seemed so absurd and pointless.

What was worse, after all of that running around, my knee was beginning to throb from the old injury from when I'd thrown myself off the cliff. Leaning against the door, I flexed the knee and came to terms with the inevitable: I would have to give up my hopes of winning her. It was a sombre thought, and I glanced at them and suddenly felt my solitude anew. It was as if I were invisible. It made me want to quit the place at once and leave them to their own devices. And yet I told myself that I had shouldered the responsibility for their safety and my honour demanded that I conduct myself accordingly.

Even as I was lost in these thoughts, I heard her murmur tenderly to him. Sensing that they needed time to themselves, I detached myself from my station by the door and resolved to give them some privacy.

I'm going to leave you now and fetch the jellabas, I said. I won't be gone long. When I come back, you can decide what to do next.

Her husband walked over and pressed my hand fervently. We haven't even thanked you, he said.

Don't thank me yet, I replied. You're not out of danger.
Inshallah
, this night will be over soon and you will make it out of here in peace. Until then, let us hope for the best.

Inshallah
, he said, and I heard her echo her thanks from the back of the room. I raised my hand in a gesture of solidarity, cracked the door open, and looked around to make sure the coast was clear. Then I slipped out and locked the door behind me. Little did I know as I ran down the pitch-black alley that that was the last time I would see them.

Mustafa paused, and I held my breath; a dark flame seemed to singe my brother's eyes. His face contracted as in a spasm and he drew himself up. Running his hand over his forehead, he stood up abruptly and took a few agitated steps along the narrow space between his chair and the wall behind him. His eyes roamed over the low-ceilinged room, settling on nothing. After a few minutes of this restless appraisal, he halted and turned to look at me with a disconcerting intensity. His dark eyes glittered. I thought he was going to return to his seat, but he merely murmured:

What can I tell you about what happened after that, Hassan? There's very little to tell, really. I came back in a while with the jellabas, as I'd said I would, but when I found the door to the room ajar I knew at once that something was amiss. I plunged into the room prepared to do battle but there was no one there. A dense weave of shadows met my eyes; everything was perfectly still. I even switched on the light to make sure that I wasn't imagining things. But no, they were gone, and I had no idea what might have happened to them – save one thing.

With his eyes still fixed on me, he walked back to his seat.

I looked enquiringly at him.

And what was that? I asked, even as I experienced a renewed feeling of discomfiture; it struck me that a subtle change had come over not only my brother's expression but his entire bearing towards me.

Bending his head a little, and with his eyes more on the bars that lay between us than on me, Mustafa replied in a tone that seemed altogether removed from our surroundings:

It was a small inkwell in the shape of a lion, carved out of soft stone and painted red. Someone must have dropped it by accident in the alley just outside Karim's shop, and I recognized it immediately, as well I should. Why, I would have recognized it in the dark. You see, I'd found it in the Sahara a long time ago, when I was a boy. I'd taken it from a dead woman, and it had been in my possession all these years until I'd given it to my beloved older brother, Hassan, on the occasion of his thirtieth birthday. He is a storyteller who loves to write with pen and ink in his sheepskin journal and I thought he'd have more use for it than me.

The mood in the room had undergone a sea change while my brother had been speaking. Now he looked at me awkwardly, even shyly, though his eyes were pained, his face long and sad.

I'd had your name inscribed on the bottom, if you recall. So there could be no mistaking it, Hassan. It was none other than the one I had given you.

He broke off and directed his gaze almost apologetically at the inkwell in my hand.

My dear friends, I would have burst into outraged laughter had the accusation been levelled by anyone other than my own brother. As it was, I stared at him in amazement. We were of the same flesh and blood; I could look at the world through his eyes, and yet I couldn't look through his heart and fathom his reasoning.

He mistook my silence and attempted to jog my memory.

You do remember when I gave it to you, don't you? It was in the evening, at home, in the garden. We were all standing around. Ahmed had just played the flute for you; Father had recited a poem.

Even though I didn't dare trust my voice, I felt compelled to reply. Mustafa, it was less than two years ago, I said. I'd hardly have forgotten.

Well then?

I had to smile, the ridiculousness of it all saddening me.

Have you gone mad? I asked him.

He stared at me. Of course not, he retorted, colouring fiercely.

Then you are delirious, perhaps?

Absolutely not.

Then how can you assume that I had something to do with the disappearance?

He began to bluster, but I cut him off.

And so one seeks the truth in the small, palpable objects as a remedy to the great impalpable that is life, I observed.

He seemed taken aback by my words.

You don't believe me? You think I'm making it all up?

Oh no, I do believe you, I said. Don't forget that I'm a storyteller. That is how I make my living. For me, whatever is imagined must, by definition, aspire to fidelity. And yet…

I paused and chose my next words carefully.

Let me put it this way. As Father likes to say, it takes more than just a healthy imagination to make an adept storyteller.

I did not imagine it. It is the truth.

It is not the truth. It cannot be. A vital element is missing.

There was a pause.

He appeared put out. Then he ran his tongue over his lips.

I don't understand what you're getting at. What would make my story more believable, according to you? What is missing?

The element of proof.

What do you mean?

Simply this. I'd gone there looking for you that night. I searched for you in all your usual haunts in the medina, determined to dissuade you from the course you had chosen.

You went to Karim's shop?

Yes, I did, and to Dounia and her daughters, and the Qessabin Mosque where they'd seen you enter, and many other places besides. Obviously the inkwell must have fallen out of my pocket when I was standing in front of the shuttered shop, where I'd hoped that Karim would be working late, and you'd be with him, and we'd be able to talk some sense into you together.

He gazed at me in disbelief. You cut short your storytelling session in the Jemaa?

And dismissed my audience. For the first time in my life.

I had no idea, Hassan!

No, of course you didn't. You were too caught up in your own madness.

I extended the inkwell towards him.

We share the same mother's heart, Mustafa. If there is any doubt in your mind about my complicity in the affair, then I will personally reveal your suspicions to the police.

My brother stared at the inkwell and then at me in supreme confusion – his face a compendium of many feelings, both complementary and conflicting – before sitting back with a dazed expression.

So you see, I said, it made for a nice story, though one too slight for my taste. It could have done with – how shall I put it? – more gravity, but also more suspense. To consider only one instance, that fight in the Jemaa was vicious, as I remember it, and I don't think you did justice to it. Also, you rushed through the best parts, which is usually an error that most amateurs make when it comes to judging pace. A less breathless tone would have made it seem more seasoned, less glib, and certainly not so much like a B-grade movie. All the same, it was a valiant first effort. Or was it a first effort?

Realizing abruptly that I hadn't the faintest idea, I jerked forward and fixed him with my eyes. Mustafa, I said with sudden alacrity, is that what you told the police?

Of course not, he said, flushing. A hint of irony, so fleeting that only my watchful eyes could have noticed it, played on the corners of his lips. He met my earnest gaze and said: There's a time for secrets and a time for confessions. I told you that you could set your mind at ease.

Yes, I said wryly. You've told me a lot of things.

He flushed again and contemplated me with an air of contrition.

I care about you, Hassan, he said. Immensely. I always have. Never forget that.

Thank you, I replied. All the same, it won't change my opinion that you are an idiot and also quite mad. And totally reckless, to the bargain.

He frowned but did not utter a word. His face still bore traces of his astonishment arising from my refutation of his claim concerning the inkwell, and it was clear that he now preferred discretion to valour.

Exercising restraint, I joined my fingertips and regarded him with immense forbearance.

You do realize, don't you, I said, that there was no need for you to have acted as you did? You've behaved like a complete fool.

He hung his head without a word.

Well? I prompted.

He sat back and closed his eyes. On his handsome, weary and bruised face there now appeared traces of helplessness. To my surprise, he seemed close to tears.

I realized at once that I'd been too harsh and attempted a more conciliatory tone of voice. Mustafa, I said, I am sorry about what I just called you, and I apologize as well for coming down hard on your story, but at least where the latter is concerned I have my standards, and they are high.

I'm well aware of that, he said, and, opening his eyes, he brought his face close to mine. A sense of shame seemed to be oppressing him, checking his rising tears. He looked at me for a long time before turning away and casting his glance around the room with a look that was oddly ambivalent.

May I have another chance? he asked. His voice was hoarse.

My heart felt heavy as I gazed at my brother.

The room smelt of our sweat, both his and mine.

I turned away from him and said: Only if you tell me what really happened that evening. As your brother, I deserve no less.

Somewhere on the floor above us a tin cup clattered loudly. Neither Mustafa nor I reacted to it. Instead, we continued to stare at each other, not daring to take our eyes off one another's faces for even an instant. Finally, he stirred. His tired face seemed to have grown even more exhausted.

All right, I will tell you what happened, he answered.

Thank you, I said. It's only fair, you'll agree.

I could see him composing himself. Turning a little red in the face, he coughed, twice, paused to catch his breath, and then, in a ragged, spent voice, told me the story of his love for a complete stranger and the sacrifice he'd made for her.